J. Konrath - Dirty Martini

“Are you a psychotic bed-wetter?”

The call ended. That was definitely a recording. The Chemist was probably already in place, making sure the scene was clear. I heaved the suitcase up and headed east.

I hadn’t been to Navy Pier since it was renovated about ten years ago, and if I hadn’t been there to deliver extortion money to a mass murderer I might have enjoyed the music, the foliage, the myriad of smells, the distinct carnival atmosphere. Instead, I focused on moving as fast as I could and ignoring the many signals from my body that I should stop moving so fast.

Halfway there, I had to stop to move the strap from one shoulder to the other. My blouse was soaked with sweat, and some blood. My jeans were grass stained, my watch bezel was cracked, and my lower lip had swelled up to football size.

The three-minute time limit passed. Then four minutes. I limped onward, finally making it to the end of the pier at the five-minute mark. Beyond the Grand Ballroom building there was some outdoor seating, a semicircle of flags, and a handful of evergreens. The one in the center, next to the railing that prevented people from falling into Lake Michigan, had a red ribbon tied around the trunk.

I approached it slowly, partly out of caution and partly because slow was the only speed I had left. At the base, covered by dirt, was a white business-size envelope.

I looked around, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to me. Figuring the Chemist wouldn’t try to kill me until he got his payoff, I picked up the envelope by the corners and fished out a piece of paper.

Jack, be a good girl and throw the suitcase into the lake, directly ahead of you. Do it now. Then wait for my call.

I started to laugh. The son of a bitch had actually gotten away with it. He’d been there watching at the Daley Center, then used his auto-dialer to send me running all over the place while he put on some SCUBA gear and waited in the lake for the money to come.

“Reynolds, the Chemist left me a note. He wants me to drop the money into the lake. Where’s the police boat?”

“Burnham Park Harbor, about a mile away.”

“Do they have diving equipment?”

“I think so. Hold on.”

I waited a few seconds. Out on the lake, a tour boat glided peacefully by.

“They have equipment,” Reynolds said, “but it would take them a minimum of ten minutes to get it on.”

So much for that.

“Ask them where he could come up.”

“There are a few harbors, and three beaches, plus he could be on the lake somewhere. There are dozens of boats out there.”

So that was that. There was nothing else we could do.

I walked to the perimeter fence, which only came up to my waist, and set the suitcase over the top. Then I climbed over after it, walked a few feet to the end of the pier, and gazed down into the inky blackness. Ten yards deep, at least. Probably more. I couldn’t see past the first few feet.

But he’d be able to see it, painted bright yellow.

“I hope it lands on your fucking head,” I said, and dropped the bag into the water.

It hit with a big splash, and then sank immediately; of course it did, with twenty pounds of platinum to weigh it down. I stared for almost a full minute, then hopped back over the fence and sat down at one of the outside benches and watched the waves roll in.

THE CHEMIST BREACHES the surface alongside a pier in Chicago Harbor, less than a mile away from where he picked up the suitcase. He drops the Little Otter-the underwater jet scooter that got him here so quickly-and lets his SCUBA tank, still half full of the nitrox air mix, sink to the bottom. He doubts they’ll be found, but if they are, they can’t be traced to him.

Next, he hangs the bag handle on a mooring cleat, pulls off his flippers, and then eases himself onto the pier. There are some people in a boat a few yards away, but they aren’t looking in his direction.

It’s hard, getting the suitcase out of the lake. The money inside is soaking wet, as is the leather, and he almost pops a blood vessel in his forehead hoisting it onto the pier. Once it’s up, he walks casually over to the Miss Maria K , the twenty-three-foot boat that rents this slip, and removes the black vinyl bag he’d tucked under her cover tarpaulin. Another quick look around, and then he opens up the suitcase and stares at the cash, the platinum, and the felt bag full of uncut diamonds.

“For you, Tracey,” he says aloud. But there’s no joy in his words.

That’s okay. The joy will come later.

It takes him thirty seconds to put everything into his new bag, and then he drops the yellow suitcase back into the water, where it slowly sinks. Getting out of the dry suit is like wrestling with an inner tube, but he manages, tucking it into the nylon bag atop his loot. Wearing only a bathing suit, he slings the bag over his bare shoulder and walks down the pier, to the sidewalk, and into the parking lot, where his car awaits.

After locking the nylon bag in the trunk, he starts the car, waits for the light, and pulls onto Monroe.

He makes a few random turns, watching his mirrors. When he’s sure no one is following him, he reattaches the battery to his buy-and-go cell phone and calls the good lieutenant.

“Daniels.”

“Hello, Jack.”

“Is it you this time, or another recording?”

He smiles. She thinks she’s so clever. If that’s the case, why is he the one with two mil in his trunk?

“It’s me. And it’s also the last time you’ll be hearing from me. You kept your end of the deal, and I’m keeping mine. Today, a prominent Chicagoan is getting married. I helped out with the refreshments. If you don’t intercept them in time, the reception will be really dead.”

He had planned on saying that, but it isn’t as funny out loud than it had been in his mind.

“Whose wedding is it?” Jack asks.

“That’s for you to figure out. Better hurry; you only have a few hours.”

“And that’s it, then? You’re done terrorizing the city?”

“Rest assured that I’ll never poison anyone again.”

“I think you’re lying.”

He smiles. “Believe what you like. I did what I set out to do. Now I’m going to disappear. Think of me, next time you go out to eat.”

“You’re a monster.”

“Good-bye, Lieutenant. I hope I showed you a good time. I had a blast.”

He separates the battery from the phone, and tosses it in the backseat to dispose of later. He would like to feel a sense of accomplishment, of completion, but there is still much to do. The wedding reception is in a few hours, and he wants to be there to watch the show.

Supermarkets and restaurants are easy to sabotage. A reception is difficult. It requires a lot of work, and more than a little luck. But it can be done, if you know how.

Two weeks before the event, call the banquet hall, speak to the banquet service manager, and ask if he would like to switch liquor distributors. Some chitchat will get you the name of the distributor they’re currently using, and even the day of the week they deliver.

Next, wait around the back entrance of the hall for the distributor to show up. Tail him during his route until you have a chance to kill him-many toxins can imitate heart attacks. Then take a look at his invoice clipboard until you find the weekly liquor order for the hall. Make a copy of it. Also make copies of his keys, and take a look in back at how the liquor orders are packaged. Then return everything where you found it. Someone will discover the driver and the truck eventually.

On delivery day, wait for the new driver at an early stop in his route. When he dollies in the boxes of alcohol, he leaves the truck unattended. Use your keys to get into the back of the truck, and substitute your order for the hall’s order. It might not be exactly the same, but who cares? They might make some exchanges when they check the invoice, but enough of the tampered alcohol will get through.